


Of Buttercups and Bleeding

by forestdivinity (ForestDivinity)



Series: The Horror and the Wild [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Secret Identity, Unrequited Love, Witcher!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestDivinity/pseuds/forestdivinity
Summary: He hadn’t meant to lie. Not really. It hadn’t been a proper lie, one of omission, and it wasn’t like Geralt was the only person he’d been lying to at the time. He’d just wanted to be someone else for a bit. A Witcher was always a Witcher. Except when that Witcher was Julian Alfred Pankratz.-Jaskier has a past that he'd been hiding for a long time. Too long. When Geralt gets hurt he has a choice to make. Continue living a lie, or save the man he's come to love and risk exposing it all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Horror and the Wild [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632382
Comments: 244
Kudos: 1787
Collections: Finished Fics I Love, Identity Crisis





	1. 1

He hadn’t meant to lie. Not really. It hadn’t been a proper lie, one of omission, and it wasn’t like Geralt was the only person he’d been lying to at the time. He’d just wanted to be someone else for a bit. A Witcher was always a Witcher. Except when that Witcher was Julian Alfred Pankratz. Except the Witcher was not a Witcher at all and instead was the Bard Jaskier, disguised by a potion or two and a few hard won spells and it wasn’t like he’d expected to run into another Witcher in a place like Posada!

Especially not Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. A hulking great Wolf Beast, who obviously had no idea who or what Jaskier was because if he did...

He hadn’t meant to lie but somewhere along the line he’d been afraid of Geralt’s reaction and so he’d played the fool - and done it well, if he was so say so himself. And by the point he’d stopped being scared they had become something not unlike friends and they had a routine and Jaskier didn’t want to ruin it.

So he didn’t.

That was how it had all started. In some back water tavern where he’d seen another of his kind (but not really because Geralt was a wolf and he was noble and proud and Jaskier, Jaskier was a lie) and things had spiralled.

So now he was a bard except for when he wasn’t but the times when he wasn’t Jaskier the bard were becoming few and far in-between. It was Geralt’s fault, he’d tried to tell himself a few times. For being so insanely attractive. And good! Geralt was good at what he did and Jaskier was trained as all Witcher’s must be but he’d always been a bit much for it. Too dramatic and prone to slipping. Too close to the monsters he’d spent most of his life fighting.

The lie. That’s why they were here now because they’d had a fight and Geralt had run off to fight a nesting wyvern to escape from talking about his feelings and he thought of Jaskier as nothing more than a useless bard so - as usual - he’d been left behind. Of course he hadn’t stayed behind because Geralt had already been injured and Geralt was handsome and strong and fast but he was also an idiot. And Jaskier wasn’t about to let the one person he truly considered a friend go and die on him because he was an idiot. They were both idiots, he thought to himself. How was he supposed to help against a wyvern anyway? It wasn’t like he had his swords on him and a silver dagger wasn’t exactly the best thing against a bloody wyvern’s scales.

Not to mention he was fucking out of shape because of the lie. He’d gotten lazy, letting Geralt protect him. It had been nice to be taken care of but now he regretted it as he picked his way up the rocky hills. It all came back to that lie.

Jaskier, the humble bard. Julian, the half mad cat. He’d tried to split himself in two and now he a had a choice to make.

In the end it was an easy one.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is gonna be non linear as hell so... have some of Jaskier's past. It's a little sad.

Julian Alfred Pankratz had been born on a sunny, summer afternoon, red faced and with a shock of blond hair that neither his mother nor his father had, and neither could tell you where it had come from. Unlike most newborns, he had barely cried. He let out one wail that stopped almost immediately when he realised that no-one was coming, which worried the midwife that had delivered him enough that she’d insisted on watching him for a day. By the third hour she’d been tired and she had her own children to go home to and Julian seemed fine really, if a little strange, so she’d left. 

It was unfortunate because she had been the only one who’d cared at all. His mother and father had never wanted a child, but had been pressured into it by their mother’s and father’s alike, and it showed in how they treated their son. Julian was alternately a pretty decoration to show off like a toy, or a nuisance that they left with the servants, and more often than not he was a pain they didn’t want to deal with. 

So when a Witcher had come along and claimed him, at the age of three, after killing a werewolf that had been terrorising their estate, his parents had let him be taken with nothing else but a dry kiss on the cheek and a quick wave goodbye.

They hadn’t been happy as they watched their child leave but they weren’t upset either. It had been an easy way to get rid of something that they’d never wanted in the first place. Like leaving a dog in the middle of a forest and wading through water on your way back, so it couldn’t follow you home. Julian remembers turning back one last time to look at them, just to see if they’d actually cared but they’d already gone back inside their crumbling house, back to their dull and petty lives. 

And that had been that.

* * *

Cat’s were notoriously difficult animals, he came to learn, as he walked along side Hannes’ horse. The Witcher let him ride, but only when his legs were too weak to go on any longer. Cats were difficult, he would say, but, they were fast and sneaky, and they always got what they wanted, either by manipulating someone into giving it to them or merely taking it for themselves. And Julian would have to learn that or he would always be the one no-one wanted. Julian had curled his hands into tight fists at the thought and said nothing in return. That had made Hannes squint and flick the reins of his horse, and so what else could Julian do but continue to follow. 

He’d travelled with Hannes, across mountains and rivers until spring melted into a hot summer and then they reached the castle where he would spend the rest of his childhood. Hannes, he never saw again, and it wasn’t until he was seven that he found out he’d been killed in a peasant’s revolt, having been too slow to escape. By that point Julian’s hands were calloused from his training, learning how to hold a sword, fire a bow, or simply strangle with his bare hands. He was a quick and silent child, strange but at least easy enough to deal with. It was then that he made a pact with himself, to never be too slow or too stupid, to get himself killed. And if he was going to die he would do it in a far less mundane way. He would be remembered, whether people liked it or not.

Julian was a quiet child, until he was not. There were other boys with him and he disliked them all, bar one, who likened Julian to a flower for his shock of blond hair. The other boys were crass and dull. They could swing a sword but they didn’t understand much else besides it. Dorian was quick witted enough that he could hold an interesting conversation, even if he could be strangely idealistic at times. Picking dandelions from between the stone cracks and giving them to Julian like they were the best gift he could find. They weren’t.

For one, Dorian had been older when he was taken. His parent’s had both died due to some plague and he was the youngest of seven, so his grandparents had been happy to get rid of him. At least, Julian thought to himself, they’d had the excuse of too many mouths to feed and not enough money. His parent’s had been rich and they’d had only him but he still wasn’t wanted. Thankfully they rarely discussed their families, and Julian was glad for it, because his mood always soured at the thought of Letterhove, the crumbling walls, and tepid smiles of his parents.

Dorian had been quick when he was taken away and he’d brought with him a lute that he’d stolen off his grandfather. Had he gone home, he would have been in great trouble, he’d told Julian, but they were never going home, so he’d taken it just to spite his family for giving him away. 

The lute was old and worn and they’d spent every free hour they had practicing. Learning how to tune the strings, how to pluck them to play strange little tunes. Neither of them had a formal education but Julian realised he had an ear for music, and Dorian knew how to buff out the wood and he learnt how to make new strings when their first set broke. It was the closest thing they had to friendship and Julian admitted to himself that he’d be sad to see him go. 

Dorian was tall and broad shouldered, and Julian could see how he struggled to fit in the little holes and nooks that their mentors chased them into. More than once he got a beating, for leaving himself exposed, because an exposed Witcher was a dead one. And he was kind too, where there shouldn’t be kindness. He winced whenever he heard of a particularly gory death and every so often he would hesitate when swinging his sword. Julian squeezed his body into a crack in the stone walls of the castle and knew that Dorian wouldn’t survive. 

Witchers weren’t made from kindness. 

Dorian hadn’t survived. Julian did. There was a little else to say on the matter. Other than that Julian hadn’t merely survived. He’d thrived, burning through the trials with screams and laughter, never once begging for it to stop.

* * *

He took the lute from Dorian’s bed after he died, and continued to play and whenever he thought about the broad shouldered boy he’d grown up with he would laugh, high and manic enough to gather stares wherever he went. His blond hair faded to dull brown but his eyes only got brighter, slits of endless black against deep sky blue. His teeth and nails were sharper than they should have been, none of the other boys looked like him. The mutations had left him more mutant than man and he couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

His brothers whispered about him in the halls and found excuses to be wherever he wasn’t. Even the elder Witcher’s began to avoid him, after he gutted a kikimore with a grin on his face. 

Perhaps gutted was the wrong word. There had been very little left of the beast when he’d walked away, just the shattered remains of bone and something resembling organs, if organs were actually goo. He’d started singing to himself as he swung his swords by his sides, covered in thick and sticky blood. They’d turned him into a Witcher, if people wanted to call him a monster then he would be one. For a while, at Stygga Castle, he was free to do as he wanted. They hesitated sending him out. All Cats were unstable. Julian more than most. 

But he’d made a pact with himself. Be quick and smart. So when they let him go on his travels he put on a blank face and carried his swords and he learnt how to charm people out of their own smalls. He was enchanting and dangerous. He got given what he wanted, or he bit the hand that fed him and took what he rightfully deserved. 

So what if he teetered a little close to the edge of ‘sanity’ sometimes? He always bounced back. If he relished a little too much in a kill, it was only so he could smile and croon at the people around him once he got back. Scary Witcher, sexy Witcher, easy to fall into bed with and do whatever he wanted Witcher. It suited him just fine. Kill, get paid, fuck.

What else was there to care about? 

And yet he couldn’t stop carrying around Dorian’s lute and feeling his heart shudder every time he went to put it down. Broad shouldered men and quick witted children made him feel something different. He wanted to make them smile. A real smile. And then he would laugh until he was breathless and pretend he definitely wasn’t crying because he didn’t do sad.

He hadn’t done sad since the day his parent’s had let him go off and become a killing machine.

Or maybe he’d been sad ever since that day. Who knew?


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present we go!

“Fuck mountains. Fuck wyverns. And fuck stupid bone headed Witchers.” Jaskier muttered to himself as he scrambled over yet another piece of crumbling rock. Why the hell was this mountain falling apart? It wasn’t fair that he had to clamber up it after Geralt because the idiot had run off to fight a wyvern while he was injured. It wasn’t fair that it was all his fault. He was ignoring the fact that he too was a bone headed Witcher, in favour of insulting the man he was trying to save, because if he admitted anything the guilt would be overwhelming.

How had Geralt got up here so fast? He was unfairly fast, definitely stronger than any other Witcher Jaskier had ever met. Was that due to him being from the Wolf School, or was it just Geralt? Jaskier had known for a long time that the school of the Cat was perhaps, just a little bit fucked. Their mutations were all wrong and twisted. Even if they didn’t die outright, half of his brethren had been carefully culled after the trials, too mad to live. Jaskier had been on the cusp, but he’d always been a survivor. 

And now what was he? A fool. A freak. An idiot in love with his best friend and not being able to tell him. He huffed as he ripped his doublet again, remembering just how much he’d paid for the fine silk. Geralt was right, he was stupid for wearing such things. Dousing himself in finery as if it would wash the bloodshed and the madness off of his skin, or at least disguise it for a little while. A Witcher wore sturdy armour that could be easily cleaned and repaired - but Jaskier wasn’t a Witcher was he? He was a foppish bard with a liking for the finer things in life. Perhaps the disguise had worked too well. After all he’d even begun to convince himself.

He was startled out of his thoughts as his foot slipped again, and he let out a low groan of annoyance. After a moment he dragged his flat soled boots off entirely, curling his toes into the mud, making a face at the feeling. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t gone barefoot before. Throughout most of his training they’d not been allowed boots - after all one didn’t always have time to get dressed - so he was at least balanced on his feet now his toes could get a grip. 

He couldn’t afford to fuck up now. Even if Geralt hated him after this at least he would be alive still. As Jaskier? He would go back to being what he really was. A monster. He’d spent over two decades convincing people that Witchers weren’t monsters. That Geralt wasn’t a monster. Why then, did he still see himself as one?

* * *

As he climbed closer to the spot that the wyvern had last been seen he felt his heart begin to ache in his chest. Geralt hated secrets and he hated liars and Jaskier had been hiding for twenty years now. There was nothing true about him. 

Except maybe there was, because in another life all he would have ever been was a foppish bard and he knew it. From the minute he’d picked up Dorian’s lute he’d been enamoured, and more than once it had been the only thing to drag him back from the edge of madness. He was a machine made to kill but music had always been the one passion he’d clung to. Jaskier was as much his own identity as Julian. It was confusing. It made his head throb and all the _feelings_ he had fighting inside him would well up and all he could do was laugh and laugh and laugh until his throat cracked.

He wasn’t laughing now. Now, he was clutching the heavy pendant around his neck, the anchor for his glamour, feeling how it all but burnt at his skin. It was powerful magic and he’d paid for it five times over in bloodshed. Once the glamour broke it would take time and pain and money to recast. He had a choice to make. It rang in his ears and made his skull pound, even as he climbed his head bobbed along to the beat that throbbed inside of it. 

In the distance, he could hear the metallic cries of the wyvern. Like an iron board running over rocks. It was an awful sound. The creature was injured, but not dead yet. And not going down without a fight. Geralt was there. Worry bubbled up in Jaskier’s chest. Was he okay? 

Probably not. 

Any other time the bloody beast would be dead by now and Jaskier would be down in the tavern getting plastered as he sung of another heroic exploit by the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia! Instead he was scrambling up the mountain because they’d had a fight and for once it had been Jaskier driving Geralt away, telling him to leave. What else could he do? Geralt didn’t know him, and if he did they wouldn’t be friends. Certainly nothing more. His breath came in harsh pants and he told himself he wasn’t going to cry. Julian didn’t cry. (Jaskier did). Emotions, he’d always had too many of them.

Wolves and Cats did not get along, they were natural enemies. That was a fact, one Jaskier had known for years and years. Of course it hadn’t stopped him from going up to Geralt that day in Posada, but he’d been reckless then and stupid. Interested in meeting the Butcher of Blaviken. He’d never intended to stay. But though Geralt was prickly and emotionally constipated he liked people. At least he liked the idea of them. Most of the time. Even if he was enough of an arse that he acted like an idiot the minute he was around any of them, he liked them enough to protect them. And Jaskier was a person, irritating, flirtatious, but ultimately good hearted and easy to break. Easier to care for, to protect.

Julian was a tornado, wrapped up in something akin to human shaped. He was teeth and claws and rage and a deep, deep emptiness that dragged things too close in an attempt to feel something other than hurt. 

It was the trials. 

It wasn’t the trials.

He’d always been a strange child and the trials had only exacerbated that. He was too easily hurt and too easy to react and in the end it all came down to the fact that his heart was fickle. He hated and he loved in equal, overwhelming measures. From the minute he’d been born on that hot, summer day, he’d been different and being different hurt. Julian had never known anything but that bone deep feeling, the ache in his stomach when he tried to reach out and never got what he wanted back.

* * *

_This was no time to be self pitying_ , he told himself and cursed again as he swung himself up over another rock. Geralt needed him. He needed Geralt, more than the other man realised. He climbed and climbed and then, in front of him, was a small, open plain with a sheer drop down one side. 

His hand clutched the pendant hard again. In the air the wyvern growled, crossbow bolts sticking out of one wing, making it fly in awkward circles. There was a bloody gash across its chest, leaking great drops across the grassy stone. Beneath it was a small, black figure. Beside it were two blood soaked swords that Jaskier knew well. The figure didn’t move, silver hair soaked red and in places almost black with blood. Small, it was so small and fragile looking. Jaskier’s body froze with horror.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong_ , shouted his mind. Geralt had never looked small in his life. He was a great hulking beast of a man, broad shouldered and muscled in a way that made heat flicker to life in Jaskier’s stomach. He wasn’t small.

He couldn’t be. Jaskier needed him.

The world went dark around him, or perhaps Jaskier went dark in the world. Something clawed at the edge of his head and he tasted the blood in his mouth before he realised he’d sunk sharp fangs into the sides of his cheeks. 

The pendant lay on the ground, forgotten.

A beast stood in place of the bard. One with teeth and claws and bright, slitted eyes. One with a growl in its throat and rage burning through its veins. It was shaking, looking fit to burst out of its skin, but for a moment it didn’t move. Black oil flickered at the edges of its vision and it bared its teeth at the creature in the sky. They were one and the same, both blood and teeth that craved and wanted and killed. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier - or was it Julian? What did it even matter? - hissed out as he stalked forwards, ripping two sharp daggers from the inside of his doublet. They’d been hidden between the lining and the fine outer silk. The fabric was in tatters now but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. His toes curled against the rock and he opened his mouth in a wide, bloody grin.

“ **Get away from him!** ” His voice was the same and yet not, tinged with something hot and inhuman. On the ground, beneath the wyvern that too small figure twitched. Jaskier felt something burn behind his eyes. The creature turned in the air and Jaskier grinned, flicking the steel dagger towards it with a well practised twist of his wrist. It wouldn’t kill the beast, would only anger it.

Jaskier was angrier.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got a beta btw so if ya want to beta this lmk!


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning, there's some creepy behaviour, nothing happens and Jaskier isn't hurt, just left upset and uncomfortable!

The bard Jaskier was born on a cold winter’s morning, the harshest that Oxenfurt had seen in years. He was not born in the traditional sense, but rather made. Created. A whole new person, grown from the ground up in just a day. He was carved out of ice and snow and the edges were thick enough to tame the fire that had been raging inside of Julian for years and years, since the day he’d been born.

* * *

Julian was tired of fighting. He was a hundred and fifteen and he could barely remember a day without blood on the edge of his vision. It had begun to swim across everything he saw, splatters of red and black, staining his hands, his clothes, the world around him turning into some gorey painting. Where it wasn’t red it was shades of grey, as if the world was a silk that had been stuck out in the sun too long and lost all its colour. He just needed a break. Just a little one.

His swords sat heavy on his back, making his shoulders sag even if he was certainly strong enough to carry them. He clutched the lute in his hands and played on a cold street corner. When children, with no shoes on their feet and no parent’s to pull away began to gather round he didn’t shoo them away, too old and too tired to even glare them away. They were just street rats, they certainly never got to see the bards of Oxenfurt playing in their posh taverns. Julian never got to see them either. Most taverns chased him out as soon as they could, especially if he had guts in his hair. Especially if he was laughing. People hated a laughing monster even more than a glaring one. 

He was tired of being chased away. Was tired of chasing others away. He played his messy little tunes for the children of the streets and didn’t try to sing because he knew no songs. Then he’d heard of the sorcerer, staying on the north side of town, listening as one of the mud covered, blue lipped children spoke. They spoke of going to him and becoming someone new, like in a fairy tale. Sell your voice to become a nobleman’s bride. Sell your soul to become a sorcerer yourself. Julian had snorted, magic wasn’t that easy. Sorcerer’s had rules to obey, lest Chaos consume them whole. 

Unless.

At first he’d tossed it away as soon as he thought of it, he threw some meager scraps of bread at the children who’d planted the idea in the first place. There was no way to find a sorcerer like that. Someone willing to create a life out of nothing. Only it wasn’t a life, just a break, his mind told him. He didn’t have to become someone new, just look a little less scarred and mutated and monstrous and then -

And then. 

He walked away before his mind could dissolve into technicolour fantasies. They were pretty until they stoked the fire inside of him too large and he’d found it was better to just ignore what his mind created sometimes. After all, he knew it didn’t work exactly right. Never had done, never would. He just wanted to find somewhere he could get at least one decent pint in before being thrown out on his arse. People really were ungrateful. He’d spent years saving their arses from all sorts of monsters and in return they jeered and hissed at him. 

_ They’re right to _ , something in him said,  _ you’re a monster too after all _ . 

Julian clenched his fists. That voice inside his head was always cruel but it was right. He didn’t want to be a monster any more. He was old and yet in some ways he was still a child, knowing that there was no point in crying.

He found a tavern on the edge of town, where it was quiet and dark enough that they didn’t bother to throw him out because they needed the coin more than they hated a Witcher. He drank one pint and then another and before he knew it he’d spent most of his coin on ale and even his head was spinning. It was quiet and grey and he plucked absently at the lute strings because there was barely anyone else around and it settled something inside of him, just enough.

Someone jeered at the playing. The spell was broken and to top it all off he was broke.

“Get out of here, freak, we don’t need your kind acting like you’re some kind of bard!” 

“Fuck off, disturbing the peace!” 

“If you can’t be quiet then leave!” 

The words were harsh and he had no coin to spend, so he left. Like always he couldn’t stop himself looking back but there was no-one watching him go. His heart ached in his chest, he pulled his hood up over his coat and went wandering. Oxenfurt was wet that day and he knew winter was going to roll in harsh and fast across the town. He should leave, go south where the weather was a little calmer. He might have done, had he not found the sorcerer.

Or rather, had the sorcerer not found him.

* * *

“Witcher, you, stop there!” A voice had called and Julian had considered not stopping, just walking away. Perhaps he would leave society all together and go be a hermit somewhere in the hills. The thought made him snort and he stopped and turned around. He’d go mad (madder) for certain, alone with only his dark, endless thoughts. 

“Yes?” The man was tall, his shoulders broad. Julian thought about the lute on his back and the brown eyed, red haired boy he’d taken it from. Dorian had never given it to him, he had just died, and Julian had taken it so that no one else could. He’d always liked men who were strong looking, the same way he liked pretty noblewoman who made him promise not to tell anyone that they’d fucked a Witcher. 

He was, at least, a pretty face, compared to most other Witchers, and he had yet to garner more than a faint scar through his brow on it despite his long years. He was rather proud of that actually, even if the rest of him was just a mess of wounds that still felt like they leaked open sometimes.

“I have a job for you.” The man had said and Julian could smell the magic in the air around him and he blinked and squinted before nodding. 

“I don’t work for free.” He’d said and the man had smirked and nodded in return and gestured for Julian to follow him through Oxenfurt’s winding streets.

“Of course not, your kind rarely do. If it’s coin you’re after, I have plenty, but I think Master Witcher, you might want a different payment.” His voice was lilting and had a hint of a laugh and Julian was reminded of why he hated mages. They knew too much without having to ask. He growled in the back of his throat.

“It’s Julian. I didn’t catch your name.” 

“I didn’t offer it. You can call me Narzat. I have a target for you to kill, but why don’t you tell me what you want first?” Narzat was tall and strong and his hair was brown, cropped short against his skull. Julian wanted. He always wanted and he never got, no matter what he did. 

Julian grunted as they entered the house. He was drunk and it was full of sweet, herbal smoke. He sat when offered and felt the thing inside of him squirm. Magic didn’t affect him and it took a lot for drugs or booze to do anything but he was on edge already and he could feel it like a whisper against his mind.  _ Relax, relax _ , it said and he was so tired he let himself fall.

* * *

_ What do you want, little Witcher?  _ The voice asked and Julian answered from where he floated.

“Freedom. I want to be someone new. I want not to hurt and hurt and to no longer be alone. Let me be someone else, just for a little while.” He begged the emptiness. His body was somewhere far away, down on the earth while he was up among the clouds and he was crying but it was so long ago and so far away he could barely feel it.

The clouds chuckled around him and somewhere down below someone was petting his hair and he wondered who it was because he’d never felt such a thing before. 

_ Quiet now, little Witcher, you’ll get your wish _ .

* * *

Julian woke up and it was morning and the world was bright and hazy. His head was in the mages lap and fingers pet through the soft strands with a hum. His body still felt limp and heavy and not quite his but he was no longer somewhere far away. 

“What did you do?” He tried to sound angry but was horrified when his voice came out timid, like he was a child again. He tried to squirm away but whatever the sorcerer had given him was strong and paralytic and all he managed to do was twitch. For the first time since he was three and had been taken away from his parents and made anew he felt utterly helpless. 

Something in him liked it. 

“Hush, Julian. Just something to get you to relax. You were so tense, so dark. Doesn’t this feel nice?” Narzat cooed at him like he was precious and it made tears want to well up in his eyes and then they did. “There we go, you wanted to be someone new didn’t you? Here’s the first step little Witcher. And then you will work for me and I will give you what you want, and we will all be happy.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks and Julian stared up at this broad shouldered man and he hated the world and he hated himself for what he needed and what he would do to get it. Narzat rubbed against his scalp and whispered to him and Julian was immune to magic but this felt like the worst kind of spell. He didn’t want it to stop.

For hours he drifted in and out of sleep and by the time his body was responding again something had cracked deep inside of him. He was exhausted and he was being offered a way out and somehow he knew it would hurt but he couldn’t say no. Not now. Not when he was so close. 

All around him the world was bright and colourful, like it had just been waiting for this moment to come back to life. For once there was no scent of blood, just the remnants of the sweet smoke in the air. He sat up as the morning faded into afternoon and made his choice.

Narzat offered him the pendant, so long as he  _ just took care of a few things for me, Julian _ , he said yes and he didn’t look back.

* * *

By the time it was over Oxenfurt was cold as ice and Julian didn’t exist anywhere but beneath the glamour. He was Jaskier now and had the papers and the face to prove it. No more slitted eyes or fangs or teeth. Just a normal, nobleman’s son. He plastered a smile on his face as he left the city, one that wouldn’t truly fall for near twenty five years, and in time it became true and easy. Jaskier was sweet and human and he was everything Julian had ever wanted to be. 

Easy to love. Pretty on the eyes. Delicate and soft despite the world. He bought himself silks and finery with the coin he’d stolen from one creepy dead mage.

* * *

And he forced himself not to vomit at the thought of three young heirs lying at the bottom of a well, their throats slit by Julian’s swords. 


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone give Jaskier a hug, he needs it...

The Wyvern roared, its cry echoing across the field. Jaskier roared back and it was louder than he expected. He leapt forwards, and he was twenty-five years out of shape but his body remembered how to move like this, twisting out of the way as the creature dived towards him.

It smacked into the stone behind Jaskier and he smirked as it shook its head, growling towards Jaskier as it took to the skies. The slash across its chest was deeper than he’d thought but it would take a long while for it to bleed out without another push. So he had to give it that push. Which would be easy if he had any sort of weapon, bar one silver dagger on him.

“Fuck off and die!” He growled out at the beast as it swung its dangerous spiked tail at him again. Tumbling across the stone he gave it a feral hiss, crouching as it spun off into the clouds again, not willing to get too close yet. Unlike Geralt he was still a living, fighting target and the wyvern was injured. Jaskier clutched his dagger tight in one hand as he tracked it across the sky. He didn’t really want to throw it, not unless he had to. Being left weaponless was a stupid move, especially as Geralt was still too far away to get to, his swords yet another foot after that.

No, he had to be smart, but his head was clouded with rage and all he really wanted to do was tear out the things stupid throat with his teeth. It was the least it bloody deserved. Asshole. Jaskier was going to grind it into powder as soon as he got the chance. 

He blinked and grimaced. That was violent. More violent than his thoughts had been in a long time.

“Fuck!” His head was all over the place, emotions running too high to let him think straight. It throbbed with pain and heartache and anger, black swimming across his vision in strange tendrils. Little white spots sparked up against the darkness and he growled again. Geralt was still so small in the middle of the field and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to run to him. Hold him. Take him somewhere warm and safe. But the wyvern was still screeching as it spun overhead and he wouldn’t risk Geralt’s life. 

If he had a sword, or a bow, or even some sort of potion on him it would have been easy. Well, maybe not easy, but easier. As it was he was fucked.

He needed to concentrate, but it was hard to think when his vision was swimming and he could barely hear the wyvern over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. Everything was wrong. 

It was wrong. He had to save Geralt, but it seemed more like he was going to get them both killed.

The wyvern swung down towards him again and Jaskier yowled like a cat in a bathtub and launched himself at the beast’s face. No sword, no crossbow. He had one dagger left that he buried in the creature's eye before shoving his claws under it’s scales and throwing himself onto the things head.

“Fuck you!” He screamed again as it bucked. The wyvern tried to swat with its tail and Jaskier rolled until he was hanging off its neck. A low growl left him and he dug the sharp claws on his toenails into the wound on its chest, narrowly avoiding teeth as it bit at him. 

Half blind, it threw its head from side to side, trying to launch Jaskier off, but he held on like a man possessed. And he was possessed, by some raging spirit that commanded him to destroy anything that would hurt him and his. He wanted to rip and tear and pull apart. Feeling its bones crack beneath his hands wouldn’t have been enough to sate this thing inside of him.

It had hurt Geralt. It had to pay.

It tossed again and tried to take into the air but Jaskier kicked hard with his foot into the wyvern’s chest, smirking when he heard something crunch inside. A pained cry left it, and Jaskier the bard would have usually felt just a little bit bad for hurting something. But he wasn’t just Jaskier the bard right now. 

Right now he was also Julian, and Julian didn’t give a fuck, not when he was protecting Geralt.

Eyes crazed with bloodlust he threw himself up, wrapping his thighs around its neck and squeezing. A wyvern was a powerful creature, it wasn’t like was just going to be able to strangle it with his legs, but he smirked when it made a strange choked sound. 

That was his opening. The wyvern’s mouth opened, big enough to swallow a man whole if it tried. It’s teeth were yellow and stinking but deadly sharp. Any normal man would have run away screaming at the sight.

Jaskier wasn’t a normal man.

_ He never had been _ , he thought, a crazed laugh feeling him as he shoved his arm into the creature’s throat and tore. The wyvern screeched and its teeth clamped around Jaskier’s shoulder, ripping what was left of his fine silks, but he barely felt the pain. He dug his sharp claws in and gripped the soft flesh. With a yowl of his own he ripped back, feeling the wyvern’s teeth run from his shoulder and down it’s arm.

Hot, sticky blood sprayed as the creature fell backwards, its mouth opening once again. Jaskier was soaked in the stuff. It covered him from face to toe, making his hair cling to his face, dripping into his own mouth.

Dead! Dead! The thing was dead. He yowled again and pranced around the creature, pleased with his victory.

Something hot and sticky was clouding his mind too. He licked his lips and began to laugh, the sound carried around the field. He barely noticed the throbbing of his shoulder as he ripped his dagger out of the wyvern’s eye before stabbing it in again. It was dead and he was alive! 

He had won. The thought made the dark thing inside him pleased. 

On the ground, a few feet away, something, or rather, someone stirred. Jaskier didn’t notice, too busy crowing to himself about his victory, shaking his claws free of sticky blood. It had been a long time. He was ecstatic with the kill. His tongue swiped across his sticky, red teeth and he spun on the spot. And then froze.

Geralt was awake, his golden eyes wide, staring in horror at the sight before him. 

“Jaskier?” He murmured, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The sun was setting now, behind them, and Geralt looked beautiful and tragic, illuminated by the glowing pink of the sky. Jaskier let his mouth snap shut. He was in love and his heart ached and before Geralt could say anything more - before Geralt could reject him - 

\- he ran. 

  
  



	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is very sad and next!! we will finally have!! a chapter from geralts perspective and another jump in time!

Julian had killed a mother once. He’d killed her daughter too. Neither of them had really deserved it, but he’d been paid, and he’d done his job. It was a tragic story. The mother had been attacked in the worst way and she’d bore the child because of it. It was a more common occurrence than Julian liked to admit, but it had been different that time. The mother had enough magic in her veins that her own despair had cursed them both. Julian was a Witcher but he wasn’t a mage and he’d been young at the time. 

Mad. 

The town had begged him to rid them of the problem, the wailing figures that killed any man found wandering outside his home. And Julian had done it. He’d felt little remorse at the time. It hadn’t exactly felt good, but he’d done his job and he’d never have thought of any other solution.

Meeting Geralt changed that. It changed a lot of things.

Julian had cooled a lot of his own hot headedness when he’d become Jaskier. He’d built up a wall of ice and sunny smiles. Like a river Toussaint, winding down from somewhere high and cold, he was calm and sweet and pretty to look at but ultimately he moved through the countryside with no care about where he went, tamed by no one. 

And then he’d met Geralt and everything had splintered, shards of pretty ice cracking around him. At first he’d just wanted to see another Witcher, have a chat. Maybe exchange a story or two if Geralt realised what he was, but Geralt hadn’t and Geralt was prickly but ultimately kind. Not like Julian who was all bright-dark madness, or Jaskier who could charm but would never stay.

Geralt had morals aplenty where Jaskier had none. Well, maybe not none, he didn’t like to kill children, which was more than could be said for most of his school. Jaskier had few morals and Geralt had many. Sometimes Jaskier would say he had too many morals but he liked that about Geralt. It showed him how to be a better person. It’s why he’d spent decades making sure everyone knew just how good Geralt really was. Underneath his cactus exterior. And he’d prayed that Geralt never knew what he really was because Geralt was good and he exterminated monsters and that’s what Julian was.

But it had been bound to come out eventually. The madness and the bloodlust and the need to protect, to save. It had been tangled inside of him for years, growing, pulsing like some parasitic heart. And it seemed eventually was now. It was a wyvern and blood in his mouth and black at the edges of his vision, greying out the world. Geralt was so good beneath it all and Jaskier - Julian, couldn’t subject him to all the twisty little bits that were inside of him, like scraps of metal they would tear and burn and hurt. 

So he ran. He turned on his bare, slick feet and scrambled over the edge of the mountain, going down the way he’d come. He was practically on all fours and his shoulder had started to ache now the joy and adrenaline had worn off. So why, he asked himself, was he still adoring the taste of blood in his mouth.

_ Freak _ , the voice in his head whispered. He found himself blinking rapidly but no tears came to his eyes. A longing settled deep inside of him as he thought of the mage and the day he’d spent crying and limp. The man had been a creep and just an awful person but gods, did Julian wish he could cry. But he couldn’t. So he continued to run. 

The soles of his feet throbbed, ripping open as he tried to find purchase. More than once he slipped, his breath catching in his throat as he wondered if this would be the end. Falling down a mountain. A dull death. One he’d promised himself never to have, but he’d take it now, if it meant he’d never have to see Geralt, horrified and hating. Alas, he was a Cat and a Cat always landed on his feet and so Julian kept running, even when his chest burnt and his shoulder throbbed.

* * *

It was dark when he came to. Tiny white lights blinked in and out of his vision. When had he ended up on his back? He closed his eyes and then opened them again before realising they were stars, shimmering in the sky. His head was spinning. Round and round in circles they went. It was pretty, until it started making him feel sick.

When had he got here? He didn’t remember. Did it even matter? Everything had already gone to shit, maybe it would be best to just lay back and die. Or at least rest, even for a little while.

It was just that the pretty, sickly lights were making him sleepy and his shoulder ached and so did the back of his head, and oh, he’d probably hit it. But it was fine. He’d be fine. Sleeping for just a little bit wouldn’t hurt too much would it?

Julian closed his eyes. His blood rushed around in his head and he frowned at the sound of it. There was nothing else to hear. Where was he? Why was the night so quiet. He just wanted to rest a little bit longer but he couldn’t.

* * *

Julian opened his eyes. It was light, the sun against his eyes made him squint and hiss. Dried blood flaked off his skin and he picked at it as he sat up and looked around. There was nothing here but rock and grass and the odd fruitfly that buzzed too close to his ear. No Geralt. No people at all. The grass rustled and he sighed, rubbing his stomach as it growled. 

What to do now? He couldn’t go back. He didn’t want to go forward. And if he was being honest with himself he didn’t want to. What he’d had with Geralt, it had been a lie but at least it had been gilded with gold. Pretty and easy to look at and not want to look any further. Jaskier didn’t exist anymore, except he did, because even without the glamour he was still Jaskier. He was just more too.

Another fly buzzed close to his face and he hissed and swatted at it. Felt no satisfaction as it died under his hand. 

He didn’t want to leave Geralt but he had to because if he didn’t… if he didn’t then Geralt would leave him and that was far, far worse. The wound in his shoulder hurt, throbbed vicious and hot and he wondered if it was infected. He’d always been told Witcherss couldn’t get infections but he’d been told a lot of things about Witchers and most of them had been untrue. 

Or maybe it was just him. The odd one out. Always the freak, just like his mind said. His head lolled to the side a little as he stood in the middle of that sunny clearing. It was summer and it was hot and he felt nowhere near at peace but there was something familiar about being alone and warm and covered in something else’s blood. He didn’t know how long he stood like that, but when he finally took a step the sun had made its way across the sky and he noticed dandelions, yellow and bright curling out from between the stone cracks and he smiled despite himself.

He could do this. Maybe he could find Yennefer or someone and get them to give him a new glamour and a new life all over again and he would run far far away until his body was left behind and he was floating above the world and crying again.

Or maybe he thought, he would just walk, and not look back. That sounded good too. 

And he laughed as he took a step and then another and then continued out of the clearing and towards where he could hear a river. He laughed because he couldn’t cry and he was so sad he might have just collapsed right there if he didn’t. He laughed and walked and thought back to the mother and the child he had killed so very long ago and he wondered if they had felt like this, heartbroken and angry and so afraid. Had it been when they’d seen him, or had they always felt like that?

And then he laughed some more. What else could he do?


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another quickfire update. Geralt is soft and sad and he understands Jaskier, so won't you just come back? I hope you like Geralt's POV, it was fun writing it!

Geralt barely remembered what they’d been arguing about. Or rather, he knew exactly what they’d been arguing about he just didn’t understand why they were arguing. It had seemed stupid at the time and it seemed even stupider now. Jaskier had been his companion for twenty-two years and Geralt had cared for him for all that time. At some point that had grown from care to something more and when he’d finally had the courage to tell Jaskier he’d been rejected.

Well, not even rejected. Not really. That was what had made him mad.

“I love you but we can’t Geralt.” Jaskier had told him and Geralt had been confused because they had been together for twenty-two years and humans barely lived long enough as it was and Geralt wanted him! If Jaskier wanted him too, then why shouldn’t they be together? What was stopping them?

He’d asked and Jaskier had refused to tell him and then he’d begged and Jaskier had still refused to tell him and then he’d gotten upset because he didn’t understand and Jaskier? Jaskier had gotten angry and Geralt had never seen him mad like this before. Never had Jaskier get angry at him. He’d been cruel -

“Why would I be with someone who has the emotional capacity of a rock Geralt!” and -

“You don’t care about me, I’m not even your friend!” and -

“You only like me because I’m the only one who’s ever stuck around you longer than a minute!” and Geralt had felt each one like a blow to the chest and he’d been cruel back. Called Jaskier a brainless idiot without a heart, who cared only about getting his dick wet and who had no idea about actually loving someone. By that point they had both been angry and upset and Jaskier was red faced and had his cheeks puffed out and his hands by his sides in silent fists but he wasn’t crying. 

Geralt wasn’t crying either. Instead he was dragging his armour back on and steadfastly ignoring Jaskier in favour of going up to a wyvern and killing it so he didn’t punch the stupid bard in his stupid face because he loved him. He really did. The injury in his side protested, it was deep enough that even with Witcher healing it would take a few days for it to be fine again, but it was just an injury. Geralt had fought and he’d killed with injuries before. He’d be fine. He could handle it.

Through it all Jaskier just stood there and Geralt could see his shoulders trembling and how his nails cut deep half moons into his palms and he wanted to say something. To say sorry, gather Jaskier up in his arms and say he was wrong. But when he looked at Jaskier the bard looked away and he knew it was a lost cause. The wound ached and his heart hurt in time and despite it all he left silently and began the trek up the mountain. 

Once he got back down, once the wyvern was dead, it would be fine. They’d apologise and move on and forget each other’s confessions because at least that way they could still be friends. They had to still be friends, because Jaskier was all he had and he couldn’t think of living without him now. 

He grunted and nodded and resolved to say sorry first, no matter what, and to promise Jaskier that it was fine and he was quite happy to be friends and nothing more and if his heart broke a little at the thought that was fine. It was all fine.

* * *

Then he’d gotten to the wyvern. Then the wyvern had gotten to him. Then he’d woken up and there was Jaskier in the dying sunlight, covered in blood and wounded and yowling like a cat as he danced around the Wyvern’s corpse. Then Jaskier had seen him and their eyes had met and Jaskier’s had been blue, blue as the morning sky, and slit down the middle and Geralt  _ knew  _ and his heart ached.

Then Jaskier had run and Geralt  _ knew _ and he tried to run after Jaskier but he stumbled and by the time he got up the man was gone and there was only a trail of blood to follow.

At least, he thought, there was a trail of blood to follow. And Jaskier’s scent, stronger than ever before, of orange and sunlight, now with something distinctly feline mixed in and Geralt  _ knew _ and he was angry because he’d been lied to but this was Jaskier and Geralt  _ knew _ and he understood, and he just wanted Jaskier back. 

So he gathered up his swords and made the trek back down the mountain, following Jaskier’s scent and the trail of blood as far as he could as the sun sunk low behind the mountains. It was a dark night, no moon in the sky, and Geralt winced and he only sat to rest when it became too dark for him to follow any longer. He had no potions on him and he had good night vision but it wasn’t perfect. 

His injuries throbbed and his heart keened for Jaskier and he missed him terribly as he sat there in the dark. In the distance, if he strained his ears, he could hear nails - claws - against rock and soft sounds of pain that must have come from Jaskier. He put his head in his hands and fought the urge to cry.

At some point the sadness had settled into something deep and painful and far away in his stomach, if only because thinking about it all night would have driven him mad. Instead he thought about Jaskier, the Jaskier he knew and perhaps the Jaskier he didn’t.

* * *

As long as Geralt had known him Jaskier had worn silk and fine suede boots and he complained when it drizzled but not when it poured. Only once had he ever complained about walking and it had been the day they’d first met. Since then he’d walk and sing and chatter away but he never once complained, not about his legs hurting or blisters on his feet and Geralt had thought it strange for someone who was so obviously a nobleman’s heir. 

He complained about blood, especially if it stained his silk, but he knew how to butcher an animal with clever, careful precision and Jaskier would eat almost anything. Squirrel, pigeon, rat. Foods that sometimes even the poor common folk turned their heads at. Jaskier would wolf it down like Geralt was going to steal it away and when he was done he would pat his mouth dry and smile so sweetly that Geralt forgot all about it until the next time.

And there were the daggers he carried with him, a pair sewed into whatever doublet he was wearing at the time. Carefully hidden among the padding and the silk. No matter how many times Jaskier had been searched by paranoid lords and suspicious bandits they’d never been found. Geralt knew of them only because Jaskier had ripped his doublet straight across the chest once and one of them had fallen out. There had been a lot of swearing that night and Jaskier had complained so much about the silk and the cost and the pattern that Geralt had basically forgotten about the dagger until now. 

When he thinks back he realises it was silver and expertly forged. Something a Witcher would carry if they didn’t want to be caught. He’d just brushed it off as another one of Jaskier’s eccentricities and promised to buy him a new jacket if he just stopped whining and forgotten all about it. Forgotten about every strange incident under the assumption that Jaskier was just a strange but kindly bard.

Now he knew all his assumptions were wrong and he felt like both an idiot and an ass for it. 

Jaskier was a Witcher. A Cat. Geralt had come across more than one in his time. Some of them were okay, others were assholes. There was only one thing in common. They all had a thread of madness running through them - their Trials changed them, warped their minds as much as their bodies Vesemir had once told him.  _ Be careful _ , he’d said,  _ around Cat’s, they will draw you in with a smile and rip you open if you’re not smart _ . 

He’d woken and Jaskier had been laughing and hissing and he sounded more beast than man and Geralt had always had a wolf inside him but he’d never howled. Jaskier, with his quicksilver tongue and his summer sky eyes, there had always been something different about him. It was what Geralt had liked about him. He knew what it was now and he had been afraid, watching him crow above his kill, blood soaked and grinning like some angel of death.

Not of Jaskier. Just of what he might see. 

And it must have shown because Jaskier had run, quick as lightning on his feet, before Geralt could even call out to him. It was okay, he wanted to say. Come back. He just wanted to make things better.

_ Come back _ , he thought, looking up at the moonless sky,  _ I’ll be better this time _ , but the sky didn’t answer and Jaskier didn’t appear and all he could do was wait for the morning to come. 

The morning would come and he would find Jaskier and tell him he was sorry for being afraid because Jaskier might be a Cat, might be half mad and broken in places that Geralt couldn’t see, but he was still Jaskier. Twenty-two years was a long time. It was no time at all. It was everything and Geralt loved him.

He loved Jaskier. 

Oh he was angry for the secrets and the lying and the idea that Jaskier didn’t trust him, not after all this time. But he  _ knew _ . A Witcher wasn’t made easily and not without trauma and Geralt knew he had his issues at the best of time. What had it been like for Jaskier? Who had left him to such a fate?

  
Geralt wouldn’t abandon him. He  _ knew _ what that felt like and he wouldn’t do it, not again. He would find Jaskier and he would do better. He just had to wait for morning to come. Every second it stayed dark his heart ached and Jaskier got further from him but it was fine.

Morning would come. Geralt would forgive. It would be okay.

It had to be. 


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter but I promise the angst will be over with soon! I promise. Soooon! Back to Jaskier's POV!

Jaskier is wandering but he doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe he’s just going round and around in circles because everything looks the same and he’s tired. The sun is so hot on his back, his mouth is dry, and his stomach aches. 

Water, all he wants to do is find water. It has to be close now, he swears he can hear it somewhere nearby but no matter where he looks he can’t find it. And he’s so thirsty and the sun is so hot on his back. When he finds a cool rock in a shaded spot he groans and lays across it, ignoring how it digs into his stomach because it’s at least cold. He’s just going to close his eyes for a second. Then he’ll find the water, he’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.

* * *

He’s awake but not really, and something cool is resting on his forehead. Broad arms scoop him up and soothe him when he whines. Someone cards their fingers through his hair and he thinks he might be flying or floating somewhere high above his body. The sensation is familiar and makes his stomach flutter and freefall but he’s too weak to say anything or even to open his eyes.

In and out he fades. Sometimes he thinks it’s night because it is cooler and his skin doesn’t feel so sticky. He’s lying on something soft and cool and there is someone talking to him in a low, gentle voice. He drifts from dream to dream, most of them are incomprehensible. Flashes of red hair and dandelions, the chords of a lute, something sweet and sticky on his tongue. Broad shoulders and silver swords, eyes like molten gold. They all mix together and become strange and warped and he forgets them the minute he wakes up again.

He’s weak. Too weak to even lift a finger. 

He’s not supposed to get sick, he silently begs the darkness around him, it definitely shouldn’t last this long. Maybe there’s something wrong inside of him. Maybe he’s not a Witcher after all, just a failed mutant freak that they let out on the world because they didn’t know what to do with. Always unwanted, always unloved. 

Tears roll down his cheeks, someone makes a sound, brushes them away and he can’t even open his eyes to see who soothes him as he cries. Some part of him doesn’t want to either. The voice is so far away, low and rumbly but too distant to understand over the sound of waves in his ears. It’s fine, it makes it easier to pretend.

Pretend that it’s Geralt gently wiping the sweat from his forehead and speaking to him so softly. It can’t be. It must be. He doesn’t know who else would do this for him, but he’s a monster, monster, monster. And Geralt fights monsters, he kills them. Jaskier cries, too weak to even sob and when he falls asleep again he dreams.

* * *

Julian was born on a hot summer day in a place called Kerack that crumbled a hundred years ago now and Julian felt no sadness when it happened. When he was born he cried for just a minute before something in him had realised there was no point to it and he was quiet until the day he left home, trailing behind a Witcher’s horse. 

It is hot like that now, oppressive and humid against his skin during the day, but now he cries and cries and only stops when he sleeps. Someone helps him drink and brushes away the tears but they keep coming. 

Jaskier was made amongst ice and snow and silk and there is always something cool against his forehead and there is silk beneath him and laid ever so gently on top of him and the urge to talk builds inside him but his mouth won’t cooperate and no matter how much he drinks his throat is still so dry.

Maybe that’s the difference. Julian is quiet. Jaskier never is. How can he be two people when they are so utterly different? In his dreams these two halves of himself war and he feels like he might be torn apart. What has he done to himself he thinks. Why has he done this? There is no answer. Merely more dreams and more tears.

One night he wakes and there is a deep aching in his chest and he realises he just wants to die, has done since the day he was born. He wants to tell the figure this but he can’t make his mouth move, he just cries again. That night his mystery caretaker dries his face and wraps his arms around Julian. He sits him up against a broad chest and Julian is so weak and limp he feels like a doll, cursed to cry and cry and cry. He doesn’t know how long he’s held like that but eventually the tears stop and he falls into the first restful sleep he’s had in a long while.

Somewhere nearby there is someone humming a strange, familiar tune. It’s pretty, he thinks as he drifts off, and though there is still an aching in his chest he feels something akin to peace. It’s an utterly new feeling but he’s too tired to think about it.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up. Julian wakes up. He wakes up and he is still split somewhere down the middle but he is awake and he decides he will live for at least another day. 

And then he opens his eyes.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Geralt POV chapter! We're getting to the happy part! I think there's gonna be one more chapter for this one and then a sequel!

The sun rises bright and early over the mountain and all Geralt can think is,  _ thank god it's summer _ , because he can’t wait any longer. He stands and rolls his shoulders, he hasn’t slept a wink but its fine. It doesn’t matter, as long as he gets to Jaskier. This early in the day the world is damp and dewy but Geralt can still pick his scent out. After all Jaskier had been bleeding and he can taste the hot iron and oranges on his tongue. 

The trail dips and picks up and down. In places there are scrapes on stone and bright splatters of blood. Once he finds vomit and his heart clenches in place. He curls his hands into fists and takes a few slow breaths before continuing. He is slow but steady and he tells himself everything will be alright.

Jaskier can’t be far. He was injured, badly, and even a Witcher - and gods, Jaskier is a Witcher - can’t sustain himself for too long after being bitten by a wyvern. Not to mention how Jaskier had basically thrown himself down the mountain afterwards. He must be exhausted. Geralt is going to take him back to the inn, he’ll run a bath with all the scents that Jaskier likes, clean his wounds and wrap him in silk to rest.

He wants to spoil Jaskier. But maybe Jaskier wouldn’t like that at all? He’s not sure anymore. Jaskier is a bard, his bard, and Geralt thought he knew what the man liked. Thought he knew Jaskier inside out, but, as it turns out, he doesn’t. Jaskier is a mystery but surely he’s still Jaskier? One surely doesn’t go twenty-two years as an eccentric bard without actually being a bit of an eccentric bard, do they? He doesn’t know anymore.

It doesn’t matter. He has to find Jaskier first anyway and the scent of blood and  _ hurt _ is getting stronger and it makes him want to punch whoever hurt Jaskier, only the one who hurt Jaskier is Geralt, is a dead wyvern up on a hill, is a Witcher Geralt doesn’t know the name of, who took Jaskier away, is parents that are probably long dead, is the world and everybody in it. And Jaskier has probably hurt himself before too and it makes Geralt’s heart ache.

_ Not again _ , he promises. He won’t let Jaskier be hurt again.

He finds a section of mountain where the rock has crumbled and he slides carefully down to a bright sunny clearing. It would be beautiful, he thinks, green grass and little yellow dandelions, buttercups here and there, but there’s a pool of blood that smells just like Jaskier and there’s so much of it he fears for the worst.

There’s not a body here though. Jaskier must be nearby. In fact, Geralt can scent him somewhere oh so close and he smells of  _ fear  _ and  _ hurt  _ and  _ pain _ . When he focuses he can hear a stuttering heartbeat, it goes too fast and then too slow and Geralt picks up the pace, feels sweat bead and drip down his neck and he hopes he isn’t too late.

* * *

Jaskier is a mess when he finds him. He’s flopped, belly first, over a large rock and it is, at least, in the shade, but he is pale where he isn’t flushed a sickly red and he’s barely even sweating. Heat stroke is deadly. So is fever, blood loss, and dehydration, even for a Witcher. The wound on his shoulder is an angry inflamed red. Geralt prays to whatever god he can think of, begs them to let Jaskier live and then picks him up.

He sticks to the shade, can hear water nearby and soon comes across a river. Slowly he strips Jaskier out of his bloody silks and rinses the cleanest pieces he can find. They’re still a strange shade of pink but they’ll do, for now. He wets them and lays one across Jaskier’s forehead, rests another in his mouth and encourages him to suck the cool water from it. Jaskier is shaking like he’s freezing but he’s too hot, burning up in Geralt’s arms. 

He continues to wipe cold water over Jaskier, not wanting to shock his body with a sudden change of temperature. When the man began to whimper he swallowed and brushed his thumb over the delicate arch of his cheekbone.

“It’s okay Jaskier, I’m here, just relax. Shh. It’s okay.” He repeats the words and wonders if Jaskier can hear him. They’re more for him than for Jaskier, who is still out cold, but once he starts he can’t stop. 

It is only when evening falls that he begins to carry Jaskier down the mountain, having not wanted to risk moving him in the afternoon sun. Night falls properly just as they reach the village and he glares at anyone who comes near him, carrying Jaskier in his arms like he is something precious. The man is still feverish and pale, he groans every time Geralt oh so carefully adjusts him, the people give him a wide berth and even the innkeeper just waves them up to their room, even though they’d only paid for the one night. 

He sends a passing girl to buy the softest silk sheets she can find and lets her keep whatever change she gets. They are cool to the touch and he lays Jaskier on them reverently once he’s been cleaned in a lukewarm bath.

And there he stays for a week. 

Geralt cleans and holds him, pets his hair and tells him stories that Jaskier knows better than him. He’d learnt them from Jaskier after all. Jaskier groans and sobs in his sleep and Geralt makes him swallow cooled bone broth and his heart aches.

Jaskier cries every time he wakes up, Geralt can hear how his breathing hitches and he sees how he’s struggling against his body. Within moments the tears begin to fall and Geralt can’t get them to stop. He talks but Jaskier is so very far away that he doesn’t respond to Geralt’s voice. In fact, sometimes he just cries harder. Geralt wipes them away, with his thumb or with a soft cotton cloth. He helps Jaskier drink and rubs his limbs when they tremble. Everyday he changes the dressing on his shoulder, smears it with healing salve and hopes to the gods he’s helping.

Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes. He cries when he’s awake and when he’s asleep he dreams and pained sounds leave him. Geralt wants to help but he doesn’t know how. It is a long and painful week. Geralt sleeps very little, catches thirty minute naps that leave him feeling more tired than he had before.

He just wants Jaskier back, bright and beautiful would be best but he’d take him any way he could. Just let him come back, he begs the gods. Guide him back to me. One night Jaskier wakes up and he is crying yet again. It makes Geralt hurt, deep inside. 

“Let me make it better. Tell me how.” He begs Jaskier, his voice soft and cracking as he wipes away hot tears again. Before this week he had never seen Jaskier cry. Now? Now it is all he does. Geralt feels like he may start crying himself if Jaskier doesn’t stop, doesn’t wake up properly soon.

It has been a week and Geralt is trying to make things better but Jaskier is ill. So ill, his fever won’t break and he cries and lies limp in the bed. They will run out of coin soon and then what will Geralt do?  _ Be careful around Cat Witchers _ , Vesemir had said,  _ they will draw you in with a smile and then rip you open _ . Is this what he had meant? This bone deep pain? Geralt had never wanted to need anyone. Never wanted anyone needing him. Then he had met Jaskier and here they were.

Jaskier cried and Geralt crawled into the bed and scooped him up against his chest because he had tried everything and he didn’t know what else to do. Jaskier is limp and Geralt shouldn’t do this, not while Jaskier can’t fight it but it is one night. He is just holding him because those tears keep coming and Geralt doesn’t know how to fix this stupid fucking mess they’re in. He looks pathetic and delicate and broken and Geralt just wants to help.

He hums a lullaby that he remembered from his own childhood, though he’s not sure who had sung it to him. Jaskier cries until he doesn’t and then he is asleep but Geralt doesn’t move. The song continues in his throat, he brushes Jaskier’s hair away from his face and holds him close. Somewhere in between the middle of the night and the very early morning he falls asleep too, Jaskier still held in his arms. He is a comforting weight. This close he doesn’t need to stay awake to monitor him, he can feel any change through his skin.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up. Geralt wakes up too. He looks down, doesn’t expect those brilliant blue eyes to open but they do. They are bright and clear and slit down the middle, just like Geralt’s own. 

Jaskier blinks. Geralt blinks back. There is a long moment of silence and Geralt hears Jaskier’s breath hitch in his throat. He thinks his own might do the same.  _ Where do they go from this _ , he wonders,  _ what does he say now _ ?

“Geralt…? You’re here?” Jaskier’s voice is small hoarse. He coughs immediately after he speaks and Geralt tilts him up, pours a glass of water for him to drink.

“I am. I’m not going to leave.” He says simply after Jaskier has finished drinking and for a moment he thinks it might have been the wrong thing to say because Jaskier bursts into tears but he is smiling and Geralt thinks they’ll be okay.


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is soooo much longer than the others but I didn't want to split it in half! The smut is here and I hope yall like it!

It takes three days for Jaskier to be strong enough to get out of bed and by the end of it their coin is dreadfully short. His head throbs for all of them but for once it feels surprisingly empty and maybe he’s just too tired for his usual emotional dramatics. Geralt doesn’t leave. Unless he’s having a piss or getting food or water for the bath he’s there. Jaskier can feel his eyes on him, gold and bright and it makes him uncomfortable sometimes, that piercing stare.

He tries not to look at Geralt too much. They still haven’t spoken. Not really, not about anything important. It should make nerves dance in Jaskier’s belly but Geralt is still here, so that surely counts for something? It’s not like he wants to talk about it.

  
Except he really,  _ really _ , does.

The problem is, whenever he opens his mouth to say something the words get choked in his throat and he thinks of being left behind, ignored, forgotten. Jaskier might have never stopped speaking but now there’s a gaping crack down his middle and he doesn’t know where to start. He wishes Geralt would say something. Just start the conversation. Geralt doesn’t, his mouth is twisted into a thin line with worry and he’s gone back to barely touching Jaskier and he misses having those broad arms around him.

Something has to give. 

The tension snaps abruptly on the morning of the fourth day. Geralt looks at him again, he never really stopped, and Jaskier can feel the tell-tale pricks of irritation under his skin. It’s still dulled, but it’s there and he wants to bare his teeth and snarl. He doesn’t. He isn’t an animal - but he is, he is - instead he sits up and crosses his arms over his chest and huffs.

“Do I have something on my face?” It’s a stroppy, ridiculous question but at least it breaks the godawful silence. He knows there’s nothing on his face, it is the same as it ever was. Except it isn’t, not for Geralt. Because now Jaskier has two dark slits down the middle of his eyes like slashes from a knife and his face rests in an uncomfortable little scowl - not unlike Geralt’s resting bitch face really - like he can’t remember how to smile. 

“What? No?” Geralt sounds startled, his eyes squint shut for a moment and Jaskier can read the faint traces of confusion on his face. Can taste it in the air.

“Well then why do you keep staring at me, Geralt! You look and you look but you never say anything and you’re here but you feel so far away. I can’t stand it!” 

“Hm.” Geralt grunts in response and then, in three long steps, he is in front of Jaskier. His eyes are bright, Jaskier doesn’t recognise the em+otion in them. It looks uncomfortably strong and he fights the urge to squirm under it. Geralt doesn’t touch him but he sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed before he sighs.

“I was trying to give you space. Sorry.” He muttered and Jaskier thinks he might look embarrassed and now he feels irritated but strangely fond and he shakes his head.

“Space? Was a week spent crying in bed not enough space, Geralt?” He says, and he’d meant to snap but it comes out soft and a little high pitched and Jaskier can’t help but wonder whether he’s going to start crying again.

“Oh Jaskier…” He doesn’t know when he’d screwed his eyes shut but they’re closed when strong, broad arms wrap around him and suddenly he has a chest full of Geralt and it’s all he can do not to go limp in his arms.

“You should hate me.” Jaskier winces at how soft his voice comes out, how weak he sounds.  _ Please don’t leave me _ , he wants to be,  _ please don’t push me away _ .   
  


“Never.” Geralt doesn’t. If anything he squeezes Jaskier tighter and oh his arms are very thick and very strong. It feels nice to be held and yet something in him needs Geralt to understand, he deserves to be pushed away.

“I’ve lied to you for decades. Kept mountains of secrets, Geralt, you don’t know me.” Jaskier pushes at his chest, but it’s more for emphasis than to try and push Geralt away. It makes Geralt laugh, a tiny chuckle as he brushes Jaskier’s hair away from his face and tilts his head up.

“I do, Jaskier. Maybe not all of you, but I know enough. And I know being a Witcher, I know how it hurts. I won’t be the next one to hurt you.” Bright gold stares into brilliant blue and Geralt has a soft, dopey smile on his face. Jaskier has never seen anything like it and his heart squeezes in his chest.

“But - “ Geralt cuts him off, placing a thumb on his lip.

“Jaskier, look at me. I love you. This might be new to me but you are still the man I fell in love with. Just with… new stories to tell.” It’s the sappiest thing Jaskier has ever heard - and he’s spent twenty-five years as a bard, telling sappy stories across the continent. Something in his chest swells and suddenly he is exhausted, despite having just woken up, but he is happy. Geralt is with him. He snorts away the lingering sadness and pulls away just enough to wipe at it face.

“I mean technically they’re old stories.” He says, and his voice cracks again but he’s smiling.

“Jaskier. It doesn’t matter to me.” Geralt smiles back but when he speaks he is serious, catching one of Jaskier’s hands in his own.

“It’s Julian.” He mutters, Geralt blinks and there’s that subtle scent of confusion again.

“Hm?” Geralt’s face has a little furrow between the brow as he looks at Jaskier and damn the world, it’s adorable. Jaskier wants to reach up and maybe kiss it away but he’s not sure if that’s allowed. Sure, Geralt says he loves him, but does he want to kiss him? Jaskier is usually pretty good at telling but this is Geralt. He doesn’t know.

“My name. My real one. It’s Julian.” He repeats.

  
“Do you want me to call you that?” Geralt asks and he can’t stop the rapid shake of his head.

“No!” It has been a quarter of a century since he’s used the name Julian and it feels sour in his mouth now. Julian is a Witcher who killed and loved it. He will always be Julian, but he doesn’t want that name in Geralt’s mouth. Geralt has always called him Jaskier, the first one not to laugh at the name. 

He likes hearing it on Geralt’s lips.

“Then it’s Jaskier, for as long as you want it to be.”

* * *

They sit like that until Jaskier complains about his shoulder hurting despite the fact that the wound is pretty much healed and Geralt shakes his head and laughs at him. Jaskier definitely does not pout. The soft look in Geralt’s eyes definitely does not make his knees weak. 

Geralt is so close that all Jaskier can smell is him. He pulls away and Jaskier wraps his hands around Geralt’s broad biceps and pulls him back.

“I thought your shoulder hurt?” Geralt is laughing but he sounds kind and fond. Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s chest again.

“It does.” He mutters and it’s a lie but it’s okay. He thinks Geralt won’t mind this one.

A finger gently works its way under his chin and Geralt tilts his face up again. There’s that unknown emotion in his eyes and  _ oh _ , Jaskier realises,  _ it’s love _ . His heart stutters in his chest, Geralt raises an eyebrow and all Jaskier can do is blink like a fool. 

“Can I kiss you?” Jaskier asks and he watches Geralt’s eyes widen. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Geralt leans down, Jaskier pushes his head up. The room is warm and sticky with summer heat. Jaskier lets the silk sheets fall off his body and then their lips are pressing together in something sweet and chaste and reverent. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Every inch of him aches for Geralt. Despite everything he can feel tears welling up in his eyes and he flings his arms over Geralt’s shoulders and clings to him.

“Shh, buttercup, it’s okay.” Geralt whispers and he wipes away Jaskier’s tears again and presses him into the bed, a warm and steady weight. In the morning sun he looks like an angel, backlit by warm golden light. Jaskier wants and wants so bad it hurts and Geralt soothes him with a hand on his cheek and a whisper of his name.

“I’ve got you, Jaskier. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.” Geralt says and Jaskier nods and then -

And then Geralt’s lips are on his again. His broad hand tangles in Jaskier’s hair, the other wraps around his waist and rests at the small of his back, pushing him closer. It is deeper this time, but still slow and sweet as honey. Geralt swipes his tongue over Jaskier’s lips and Jaskier whimpers in the back of his throat as he lets him in.

There is no fight here, Geralt worships his mouth, lets Jaskier go soft against him swallows every tiny moan that leaves him. He pulls away for just a moment to let Jaskier breathe, noses at his jaw and kisses the crease where his neck meets his chin, just below his ear.

“So beautiful, Jaskier. My buttercup. My precious flower.” Geralt whispers and the words make Jaskier gasp, all the air stuck hot and heavy in his chest.

“Geralt. Geralt.” He whispers his name and tangles his own hands in silver-white locks, like strands of starlight, so uniquely Geralt. He is hushed quiet again when Geralt pulls another long, languid kiss from his lips and he is hot with want and desire. When Geralt breaks away his mouth is red and swollen and Geralt swipes his tongue across his plump lower lip and takes it carefully in his teeth. 

A whine leaves him and it’s so high and breathless that it sounds foreign to his own ears. Geralt chuckles somewhere near his ear and he rolls their bodies together. Suddenly, all Jaskier wants is to drag Geralt’s clothes off, he wants to feel them pressed close, skin on skin.

He wants to taste Geralt, to smell like him. Let Geralt burn away all his sins with this delicious, aching fire. 

“Patience, Jaskier.” Geralt murmurs, brushing away brown hair where it was stuck to Jaskier’s sweaty forehead and it is said so fondly that he doesn’t even pout in response. He does tug at Geralt’s shirt though and he smiles and swipes his thumb across Jaskier’s jaw. 

“So pretty. So handsome. How long I’ve wanted you, Jaskier.” Geralt tells him as he lifts that loose, black shirt over his head and Jaskier chokes at the sight of him, all broad shoulders and muscle and scars. He is the most handsome man Jaskier has ever met and Jaskier tells him that.

“You are the most handsome man I’ve ever met.” Geralt chuckles and kisses him again, and it’s dirty and hot and Geralt’s tongue licks into Jaskier’s mouth, claiming every inch of him. He groans and tugs lightly at Geralt’s hair and Geralt pushes his hips down again and  _ oh. Oh yes _ . 

There is a distinct hardness in Geralt’s pants. Jaskier’s own cock is swollen between his legs and he might have been embarrassed at any other time but Geralt is looking down at him with love, with adoration, with worship, and Jaskier can only moan again because he wants this. Wants it more than anything.

“I think, buttercup, you’ll find that you’re the most handsome man on the continent. And the most beautiful too.” Geralt tells him and fuck if it doesn’t make his cheeks light up red and he exhales sharply. A smirk creeps across Geralt’s face and Jaskier finds himself laughing softly because they have both been fools.

* * *

“I love you.” Jaskier tells him and the words are simple but sincere. Geralt’s eyes light up and Jaskier realises this is the first time he’s said it since… since  _ before. _ Since their fight. 

“I love you too, Jaskier.” Geralt smiles and he kisses over Jaskier’s jaw again and then his lips move down the pale expanse of Jaskier’s neck, worrying tiny hickeys whenever he kisses a spot that makes Jaskier gasp. He has never fucked like this. Never made love before, not properly. 

It feels good. Better than good. Jaskier doesn’t have the words for it. Instead he just hooks his leg around Geralt’s hip and pulls him closer and whines. Geralt runs his hands down Jaskier’s sides and he rubs lightly at the scars he finds there. He is moving so slowly that Jaskier thinks his heart might explode but he doesn’t want Geralt to stop. And Geralt doesn’t.

His hands move up and his mouth moves down until Jaskier is gasping for air as he feels something hot and wet and soft against the tight bud of his nipple. He’s never had someone touch him there before but gods if it doesn’t feel good, doesn’t go straight to his cock and make him leak. Jaskier is well versed in sex but everything here is maddeningly new and he’s leaking like he’s eighteen and wetting his cock for the first time again.

“Geralt..!” He cries out and he tugs at his hair again, rubs himself against the soft leather of Geralt’s trousers.

“I know, Jaskier, I know. Be patient with me. Let me show you how I care.” Geralt is everywhere, he sucks on one nipple and then the other until they are hard and red and tight on his chest. Jaskier’s toes curl in the soft, silk sheets, his heart beats a rapid staccato in his chest. 

Geralt’s mouth dips lower, it kisses along his stomach and down the sharp, v-shape of his hips. Jaskier all but wails when Geralt skips over his cock without so much as a kiss and presses his face into the crease of his thigh, teases it with his tongue and his teeth and leaves love bites that only the two of them will know about. Jaskier thinks about riding tomorrow, or walking out of town, feeling every mark Geralt has left on him and he sobs with need. 

He finds himself floating as Geralt kisses down his legs and then rubs up them, releasing the tension he’s holding in the tight muscle. Every inch of him feels like an exposed nerve but he feels safe and adored in Geralt’s arms and he finds himself smiling because he is wanted.

“So pretty, buttercup. A flushed and needy for me.” Geralt whispers and his voice is so close to Jaskier’s ear and Jaskier finds himself whining again and rocking up against Geralt. He laughs and pulls Jaskier into another hungry kiss and Jaskier shudders and squeezes his legs around Geralt’s waist again so he has something to anchor himself to. At this rate he thinks he might cum untouched and the thought makes his head spin.

He wants to touch Geralt, wants to shower him in affection the same way Geralt is pouring over him. If only he could get his body to move right.

“Let me…” He begs but Geralt just squeezes his waist and says  _ next time _ , like a promise and it’s fine then. As long as there is a next time then they have all the time in the world. Jaskier is hot and sweaty when Geralt moves away, the silk sheets are clinging to his body. He whines at the loss of Geralt’s body, his strong weight and safe arms cradling him, but Geralt just raises an eyebrow.

“Should I take my pants off, or not buttercup?” He asks and Jaskier swallows and nods rapidly because he wants - needs - to see Geralt in all his naked glory. Geralt smirks as he pushes them down and Jaskier feels his mouth watering at the sight. “That’s what I thought.” 

“I want to taste you.” Jaskier blurts out as Geralt picks a bottle of oil out of their bags and places it on the bed. 

“Do you?” Geralt cocks an eyebrow and he strokes a hand over his own cock and fuck if it’s not the biggest cock Jaskier has ever seen. His jaw aches just looking at it and he can feel saliva puddling in his mouth. 

“I do. Let me, Geralt? Let me make you feel good, taste you on my tongue, I’ve only dreamt about it a thousand times.” He begs and Geralt smirks as he comes closer, kneels above Jaskier, legs planted either side of his willowy chest. 

“Only a thousand, Jaskier?” Geralt teases and Jaskier opens his mouth to respond but then Geralt’s cock is rubbing over his kiss swollen lips, smearing precum over them like a noblewoman’s paint. It tastes of salt and sweat, not unlike any other cock Jaskier has ever sucked, but it is Geralt so he doesn’t care a lick.

Or maybe he cares enough for many licks. And a good suck too.

Jaskier laughs a little at his own thoughts and the sound brushes over Geralt’s cock. Geralt who is looking at him with something akin to amusement and fondness. Slowly, he begins to inch his hips forwards and Jaskier sighs around him. As he expected, Geralt is thick enough to make his jaw throb and the corners of his mouth feel like they might split if Geralt was even half an inch wider. He curls his lips over the sharp points of his teeth so he doesn’t hurt Geralt and it feels amazing.

It’s perfect. A little drool leaks down his chin and Jaskier flushes at being so messy this early on but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind. Not if the slight arch of his back and the darkness in his eyes say anything. Jaskier wants to see more, wants to see Geralt come undone with need and arousal. Careful but eager he begins to bob his head back and forth and it makes a lewd sound, wet and slick that fills the room. 

“Jaskier..!” Geralt groans out and a hand tangles in his soft brown hair, not tight enough to pull, just to hold Jaskier close. He moans around Geralt, sending vibrations up his cock and curls his tongue around as much of it as possible. Geralt isn’t even buried half way when the thick head pushes against the back of Jaskier’s throat and he whimpers and swallows and aches to take more. For a moment Geralt holds him there, until Jaskier gags just a little and then he pulls out until just the head is resting on his tongue.

“It’s okay. Don’t push yourself too much, buttercup. We have plenty of time to practise.” Geralt tells him, and isn’t that a promise? It makes Jaskier’s cock throb with want and something hot and needy curls in his stomach. Moaning again he gives the tiniest nod before sucking Geralt back into his mouth. He wraps his hand around whatever he can’t reach and sure, the angle is awkward and Jaskier can’t work that magnificent cock quite the way he wants but Geralt is panting and groaning above him so it's good. Perfect even.

“Fuck Jaskier!” Geralt gaps out when Jaskier rubs his tongue over the leaking slit, tasting the hot precum that drips from it, getting Geralt properly soaking wet. The hand in his hair tightens its grip enough to send like shockwaves down his spine and Geralt leans forwards so he can rest his other hand on the wall behind the bed. His knees squeeze Jaskier’s ribs and he begins to thrust his hips faster, driving himself into Jaskier’s mouth over and over.

Jaskier is painfully hard between his legs. Spit and precum leak down his chin and there are tiny tears in his eyes and he sucks until his jaw is going numb. Geralt is grunting above him, he holds Jaskier’s head in place as he fucks into his mouth and Jaskier can tell he’s close by how his hips begin to stutter.

* * *

He whines as Geralt pulls out, the sound is hoarse and breathless and Geralt groans as he squeezes around the base of his cock.

“Fuck Jaskier, the sight of you.” He groans out and Jaskier finds himself squirming on the bed because Geralt looks wrecked, the gold of his eyes practically eclipsed by black, his hair wild and skin flushed. If Geralt looks like this, then Jaskier can only imagine what he looks like.

“Why’d you stop?” He asks and his voice cracks. Singing will be out of the question for at least another day if he isn’t careful but he finds he doesn’t really care. Geralt’s cock was worth it.

“Because I want to cum while I’m fucking your arse, Jaskier. I want to see you writhing on my cock, buttercup, desperate and beautiful for me.” Geralt whispers and he kisses Jaskier then and Jaskier lets out a loud, hungry whine.

“That’s it buttercup, just like that.” Geralt says and then he is between Jaskier’s legs and his mouth kisses down Jaskier’s cock in a way that makes him sob, like the sound has been punched out of him. God, he needs everything so bad. He wants Geralt in a way that words can’t begin to describe. Geralt squeezes his hips and soothes him with gentle sounds as he slicks his fingers with oil. It smells sweet and faintly of chamomile and the thought of having Geralt inside him makes him whine all over again.

“Geralt, please, I need it! Please don’t make me wait any longer.” Jaskier finds himself begging as he feels one of Geralt’s thick fingers rubbing over his entrance. It is tight and pink and he will admit that he hasn’t done this for a while. Definitely not with a man of Geralt’s size. But gods if he doesn’t want it so bad that he would throw himself onto that cock now if he could.

“I won’t, Jaskier, I won’t.” Geralt promises and his finger pushes inside, slow and careful, making Jaskier see stars, bursting behind his eyelids.

“Look at me, buttercup.” Jaskier blinks his eyes open and looks down at Geralt when he’s told to. Heat curls and squeezes in his belly and Geralt is rubbing him open, teasing his finger this way and that. When he rubs against that secret, sensitive, spot inside of him, Jaskier arches and wails, clawing at the bed.

Geralt works a second finger in, and then a third, and Jaskier is dripping with oil and need, his cock hard and leaking. He feels soft, split open as Geralt stretches him, filling the room with lewd, wet sounds. 

“Please, please, please!” He begs and Jaskier barely recognises his own voice, it’s pulled so high and reedy. Geralt hushes him with tiny sounds and when he pushes his pinky in alongside his other three fingers Jaskier arches off the bed. It feels so full, so deliciously slick. His entrance throbs as it clings to Geralt and he wants to finally have Geralt’s cock in him, he’s ready, he needs it.

The fingers pull back and Jaskier pants for breath, going limp on the bed sheets, pliant as Geralt pushes his legs open.

“So pretty, Jaskier. Fuck, you look so good, open and ready for me.” His entrance throbs and squeezes around nothing with a wet sound, Jaskier can feel hot air against it and knows it must be gaping open just a touch, stretched so well around Geralt’s fingers. For a moment, Geralt just sits there and stares and Jaskier is impatient now and desperate so he twists his hips until they are pushed together and rubs himself over the length of Geralt’s cock.

Geralt lets out a low groan and he grabs Jaskier by the hips and rubs the thick head over Jaskier’s stretched out hole before he pushes in. He is slow but insistent and he doesn’t give him a second to breathe as he pushes in. Geralt is huge, splitting Jaskier open, but he is well stretched and though it aches it doesn’t hurt. And then Geralt is seated in him, Jaskier’s thighs are shaking and his mouth is open in a loud, keening whine. 

“Fuck, Jaskier, so fucking tight. Doesn’t matter how well I stretched you, you’re still tight around me.” Geralt sounds as wrecked as Jaskier feels. His voice is low and dark and growling and it makes Jaskier shudder and clench around the thick cock inside of him. Geralt pulls carefully out until just the head of his cock rests inside Jaskier, and then thrusts back in with unnerving precision, thrusting his cock over Jaskier’s prostate and making him scream. 

He arches off the bed and wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, loops his legs around Geralt’s hips to pull him close. Digs the heels into the small of Geralt’s back and begs to be fucked. Between them his cock is hard and aching and it smears precum over their stomachs, the friction making him throb. 

Geralt kisses him and he thrusts into Jaskier’s body again and again, working him open with his cock. He pushes deep but slow and they are so close, tangled together so tight that Jaskier couldn’t tell you where he began and where Geralt begins. His eyes squeeze close, he can’t help it. Inside him something is building to a roaring crescendo, heat and desire and love bubbling and growing, spurred on by the thick length of Geralt’s cock as it pushes into him.

“Geralt, Geralt, I’m close, please! Please, I’m gonna cum!” Jaskier babbles out, barely coherent enough the form words and Geralt grunts in his ear and begins to thrust just a little harder, abusing the sweet spot inside of Jaskier that makes him wail.

“Cum for me Jaskier.” He hisses out and the world is turning white. All he can feel is heat and pleasure. His claws dig into Geralt’s back, mouth throwing itself open in a loud, broken cry. Around Geralt his hole clenches and squeezes ever so tight and cum squirts from his cock, once, twice, three times, spilling the hot sticky fluid between them both. Jaskier is gasping for breath but Geralt doesn’t stop. He fucks Jaskier through the most intense orgasm of his life, making him sob because he’s sensitive but god it feels so good. 

And then Geralt groans and bites at his neck as he cums, filling Jaskier with his seed. It feels right, amazingly so. Every inch of him is trembling but Jaskier can’t find it within himself to care because he might be crying but it feels amazing. He never wants to let go of Geralt. 

He buries himself in Geralt’s broad chest as the aftershocks work their way through him and Geralt holds him and kisses his hair and promises everything is going to be alright.

And Jaskier believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please kudos and comment if you've enjoyed this fic because it would make my day! And let me know if you're excited for the sequel :D Thank you all for reading, it's been great! 
> 
> Follow me on @ashayathyla on tumblr to see my art or see any drabbles i post before they end up on here!


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